


What I Haven't Done

by three_lost_marbles



Category: Oz (TV)
Genre: Dark, Drug Use, Gang Rape, M/M, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-14
Updated: 2014-11-14
Packaged: 2018-02-25 08:34:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2615240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/three_lost_marbles/pseuds/three_lost_marbles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beecher and O'Reily get revenge on Vern Schillinger by raping his son.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What I Haven't Done

**Author's Note:**

> This is pure disturbing smut, with no artistic merit whatsoever. Also, I don't know how drugs work. Um. . . . enjoy?

_“It's about what I haven't done,” Beecher said, a wicked gleam in his eye. “I haven't fucked him. At least, not yet.”_

They were waiting for him when he got back to his pod. Ryan looked up and gave him that cocky half-grin of his that never seemed to reach his eyes. Beecher was lying on Andrew's bed, dreamy look on his face and Keller was running his hands through the other man's hair. Ryan said nothing but offered him a bump. Andrew took it with a smile. Everytime he took a hit he thought of how much he was pissing off his dad and that made him perversely happy. It was petty and childish but hey, he was practically a child. Compared to everyone else in here, anyway.

He snorted the powder and sat down on his bed, not caring that he was crushing Beecher's legs. Beecher grumbled and moved until his legs were in Andrew's lap. He suppressed a giggle. The whole thing was oddly domestic, especially with Keller twirling his fingers in Beecher's hair, and Ryan sitting on the floor in front of them. Ryan was grinning, like, really wide, and Andrew didn't know what the joke was, but those Irish fingers offered him more drugs and he took them, laughing. This was it. They were like, like a big pile of puppies. He had Beecher's legs sprawled across his lap, Keller's hands massaging his back, Ryan's deft fingers snaking up his legs to rest on his hips. Ryan looked him in the eyes, expression dead serious.

“Andrew, you hate your dad, right?” That was Keller, whispering in his ear. The man's breath tickled his ear and he giggled.

“Yeah, hatedabastard,” he mumbled.

“You want to help us hurt him, right?” That was Ryan, eyes boring into Andrew's and fingers plucking at the bottom of his prison-issue t-shirt.

“Mmmhhmm,” he said. Hurting his dad sounded like a pretty good idea. “What's plan?” Ryan's grin reminded him of predators, of snatches of old Broadway songs. _Oh the shark has lovely teeth dear, and he shows them pearly white._

“Tale off your shirt,” he ordered. Andrew fumbled with his shirt and two pairs of hands helped him out of it. Beecher reached over and pulled Andrew into his lap, and he giggled because he was between Beecher's legs and then Keller was between his, shark-smiling at him and he wasn't sure about this. Where was Ryan?

He must have said that out loud, because Ryan answered him, from somewhere far away. “Just keeping an eye out. Besides, I ain't no fag.” Andrew pondered this statement, but not for long, because Keller's (or was it Beecher's) hands were roving all over his body, and no, it was both of them because there were four hands, and he couldn't tell whose was whose. Two of them slipped his pants off, Keller shifting out of the way so he could push them past his ankles to land in a puddle on the floor. His shirt was there too. And his shoes? He didn't remember taking his shoes off. Or his underwear, but that was gone too. Panic fluttered in his chest, but Beecher was running his hands up and down his sides, soothing, making shushing noises, and Andrew relaxed again. This was nice. He closed his eyes and let himself get lost in the feeling, floating, conforted. He was dimly aware that the two men were talking, but the words made no sense.

_“Wow, this really works,”_

_“Hey, it works on dogs. What? You get a dog in a thunderstorm, it's shivering, freaking out, you just put a blanket over it and rub it's sides like so. . .”_

_“_ _Yeah yeah, you got the oil? Good. Hey wait you can't just jump in like that, we don't want to hurt him too badly.”_

_“Says you.”_

_“Chris this is non negotiable.”_

_“Christ, Ryan did you steal this from the kitchens? We're gonna smell like Italians. . .”_

There was the smell of olive oil and soft, wet sounds. Andrew opened his eyes and they were kissing over him. Beecher's hands headed south and he felt something probe at his ass and he distictctly thought _I am not high enough for this_ before a finger shoved in and he yelped at the sudden pain. This time it was Keller's turn to do the soothing. He pressed his chest against the boy's and Andrew could hear his heart beating, a low, deep drumbeat, and then Keller took his face in both hands and kissed him hard. Andrew whimpered in protest and tried to pull away, but only managed to move closer to Beecher, who had two fingers inside him now, and was twisting them harshly and _why did Beecher want to hurt him?_

“That's enough,” Keller snapped, and Beecher removed his fingers suddenly and painfully. But Andrew didn't have time to think about that because Keller was grabbing his ankles and slinging them over his shoulders, pushing himself in all the way to the hilt and Andrew was screaming into Beecher's hands _olive oil, everything smells like olive oil_. He had never done this before, and Keller was pounding into him so hard he thought the bed would break, and he was sobbing and begging but Beecher only pressed harder on his mouth to silence him.

“Wait, turn him over,” Beecher said, and he sounded out of breath and Keller grabbed his hips and turned him over, pressing his face into the mattress before continuing his relentless assault. His mouth was free but Beecher's hands were cupping his face like he was a lover, which was ironic, or fitting, or horrible, and Beecher undid his pants and freed his cock and gently guided Andrew's face towards it. He didn't _want_ to, but Beecher's normally friendly face was glaring daggers at him, daring him to protest, and Andrew opened his mouth and took it in. Keller had stopped while he did so, but soon the two men set up a rhythm together, back and forth, back and forth, one pushing the boy towards the other, and Andrew gagged and tried his best to relax his throat but it wasn't working, he couldn't breathe and he felt himself slipping in and out of consciousness.

* * *

 

Where had the buzz gone? He was lying on his side on the floor and he felt _empty_ , somehow, and his back was wet. His throat was sore and his ass was sore and his arms were sore. He looked around. Beecher was nowhere to be seen, but Keller was lying in the bottom bunk reading and Ryan O'Reilly was standing in front of him, holding a mop and grinning. Andrew sat up, curling his arms around himself protectively, but Ryan was having none of that.

“Hey Andrew,” he said. “Do you know why we're doing this?” His hand curled around the mop handle and Andrew skittered back towards the wall. Ryan's eyes glittered. “See they already got their revenge. Your dad makes Beecher his bitch, Beecher and Keller make you theirs. But we still got my baby brother to account for, and I ain't no fag so.. .” Ryan darted forward and grabbed Andrew by the back of the neck, slamming him face down onto the floor and pressing the mop handle against his ass. Andrew began to struggle but Ryan trapped his legs between his own and Keller was there, holding his arms and there was nothing he could do. He screwed _poor choice of words, ha_ his eyes shut and whimpered as the mop pressed in. Ryan didn't bother with any sort of preparation, and it hurt, but not as much as Keller had. _Must still be loose_. But that mop handle was a lot longer that Keller's dick and suddenly Ryan _shoved_ and Andrew screamed, because it felt like he was being impaled, like that damn mop was going to bull through all his internal organs and come out his mouth. Ryan pulled it out and shoved it back in again, deeper this time, and Andrew could feel tearing.

When the mop came out, blood came with it. Mercifully, this seemed to be enough. “Go,” Keller said. “Take your clothes and get the fuck out of here.”

* * *

 

Later Andrew got in a fight with his father. It was all his fault, after all. But when he was lying in the hole, and the drugs came, he didn't think. He took it all.


End file.
